


Leave it Behind

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [7]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, PTSD, gay bois, honestly what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Stan wants to bring Fiddleford home.





	Leave it Behind

“‘S not m’ fault,” Ford slurs, body held upright by Stan’s tight hold of the arm slung over his shoulder. Ford’s feet make heavy slaps and scuffs against the stained, gum pocked sidewalk as he lurches into Stan’s side, head dropping forward. Stan catches his glasses as they slide off his face and pockets them was a heavy sigh.

“Just keep walkin’, Ford.” Stan mutters, jostling his brother slightly to get a better hold. Ford groans, makes a face like he might puke but just belches.

“‘S not,” Ford whines. Stan breathes in relief when he sees the Stanleymobile.

“Whatever,” he drags Ford over, pops the lock and somehow manages to get Ford into the passenger seat without dropping his drunken sack of a brother. Ford doesn’t settle so much as collapse into himself, miserable and drifting. Stan takes a moment to worry that his brother might be slipping into an episode, that Ford’s eyes might go beyond glazed and into sightless as his mind travels the miles and years back to the jungle and the heat and the gunfire. “Hey, Ford?” He ventures, softly and carefully, hand settling lightly on his brother’s shoulder. Ford’s head rolls over, neck slack and boneless, eyes glassy and bloodshot.

“I hate them,” Ford says with startling sobriety, cold and clear as crystal. His focus snaps like a camera lens as he stares into Stan, making the cool November air feel frigid.

“No you don’t,” Stan says, leaning over his brother's tense body to buckle him in.

“Miss Fidd’ferd,” Ford mumbles, hugging himself. “Din’ deserve it.” Stan says nothing, knows that his brother is stuck in this funk for the rest of the night.

He rubs Ford’s back as his brother pukes the poison from his body, miserable and moaning.

  
  


It’s Stan’s idea to “adopt” Fiddleford. He has been working with a veterans support group, explaining the situation, discussing how his social work could be used to “rehabilitate” a soldier. It plays out like trying to release a prisoner on parole. Stan has to swear up, down, and sideways to keep Fiddleford medicated and monitored; has to sign numerous disclaiming documents. Ford almost tells him to give up, that it’s too much, but Stan is so excited to meet Ford’s old friend, even though Ford has told him about Vietnam, even though Ford has explained that when he had last seen Fiddleford McGucket the man had been catatonic at best and raving at worst. Stan shrugs every warning off and instead ropes Ford into “veteran proofing” the house.

“I’m not going to ask you to toss your booze, Ford, but you gotta put it away.”

Ford gnaws his lips raw the week leading up to Fiddleford’s arrival. Stan is a similar wreck of nerves, but he paces and double, triple checks the safety of the house, the comfort of Fiddleford’s room. Ford spikes his coffee, waits for the booze to steady his shaking hands.

Ford opts to stay behind when Stan gets the call to pick Fiddleford up from the police station of all places, like the man is some kind of dangerous criminal being transferred from one prison to another (and Ford supposes that he and Stan are wardens after a fashion). Ford tries not to get obviously drunk while he waits, he just wants to take the edge off of his anxiety. Wants to settle enough to actually read the page he’s been staring at for fifteen minutes even though the words are starting to blur and his fingers are starting to feel heavy and warm.

He startles when he hears the car door slam. He freezes, unsure if he should meet his old friend or wait to be approached. The choice is taken away from him when he hears the stomp of Stan’s feet.

“Ford, where are ya--there ya are! Come on, Fidds is here.” Stan beckons him with a snap of his head, still wearing the old, red jacket he refuses to be rid off despite the many stains. “Come on, Ford, he ain’t gonna bite,” Stan tries again, smile getting tight.

“I don’t know, Stanley, I don’t...I’m not exactly good at this.” He smiles, self deprecating. “I’m not sure if you can tell but I’m, ah, not exactly a people person.” Ford hedges and Stan snorts.

“No shit, Ford, but this ain’t people. This is Fidds.” Stan grabs his shoulder and squeezes. “He’s yer friend, Ford. He...he needs ya.” Ford swallows, blinks hard as he looks at the floor.

“Okay,” he says with a shaky sigh and returns Stan’s tight smile. “Okay.”

“Good, cause if the nerd calls me ‘Stanferd’ one more time I might scream.”

 


End file.
